


Synchrono

by benrumo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Group Home, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dirk Strider, and you made a promise when you were three years old to share everything with your brother Dave.</p><p>Your name is Dave Strider, and when you were five years old you swore to protect your brother Dirk from the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Differences, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also on Tumblr. Look there if you're really interested in notes.
> 
> Inspired by Nice Things by Ahmerst and Natche.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you made a promise when you were three years old to share everything with your brother Dave.

You will never forget. It was snack time at the home where the two of you grew up. The snack of choice that day was the last of the double-stuffed Oreos, and there wasn’t enough to go around. You got one. Your bro didn’t.

The hurt that flashed across his face went straight to your young heart. It was only there for a second, and thank fuck for that, ‘cause otherwise you might have died from a severe cardiac infarction. He hid it well after the initial shock, just like you’d taught him. He wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as you were. In fact, he never really would be. But you were proud of him for putting on a good act, not letting them know they got to him. And they really did think he ‘wasn’t that into Oreos anyway.’ But you know everything there is to know about Dave Strider, including the fact that Dave fucking loves Oreos.

The look on his face when you handed him half of the Oreo you just crushed in two was something you could remember clear as day decades later. It hit your heart harder than a runaway freight train. Struck dumb, that’s what you were. You completely forgot about your own share of the Oreo.

Dave eventually got sick of you staring and shoved you aside to go get some milk. But he came back. Any other day, he might have wandered off to screw with the radio settings on the boombox or ironically play dolls and house in the play-kitchen corner. Went and got himself some breathing air, in other words. Even the best of bros need their elbow room.

But this time he came back. This time he played with you for the rest of the day, and this time you didn’t need brotherly breathing room either. It was more than simple gratitude and you both knew it. It was the knowledge that you’d always be there for him, even for the stupidly small stuff like snack time. You knew then nothing was ever going to be more important to you than him, and you felt so certain that he realized it just like you did. The bond between you was tangible that moment, clearer then in the simplicity of childhood than it would be again for years.

For the rest of your life, you will always come back to this memory as the definition of love.

-

Your name is Dave Strider, and when you were five years old you swore to protect your brother Dirk from the rest of the world.

Dirk isn’t like other people.

It’s more than just how cool he is, or all the weird things he likes. It’s more than the way he speaks or acts. There’s something about Dirk, something that goes right down to the core of him, that is just _different._

The adults at the home used words like “stubborn,” “strong-willed,” and “independent.” They also used words like “strange,” “weird,” and “wrong” when they thought no little ears were around to listen. The other kids had their own words, some of which were meaner and most of which they were too afraid to voice after the first couple of times Dirk proved just how even he could get with his enemies.

The worst part was always that you knew they were right. Not about Dirk being “freaky” and “odd,” but about him being _different._ Dirk was different. Despite how much you looked alike and how much you tried to act like him, there was always that something about him that made you feel more like one of _them_ than one of _us._

It hurt. It hurt when you didn’t understand. Sometimes you felt like he was a thousand miles away, across an ocean you were too weak to swim, and you hated how much it hurt.

The other kids were always talking about getting adopted and having a “real” home and family. You never really got it. Probably because, you realize when you’re older, you always knew that Dirk was your home and your family, even before you realized that most kids had parents and didn’t live in homes like yours. He’s where you belong, and it’s more than just your shared white hair and reddish eyes.

But then he’d go off into that secret, different place inside him that you couldn’t understand any better than the others, and you’d know what the other kids felt. It hurt to feel so empty.

The other kids didn’t see Dirk like you did. Where you saw someone cooler than glacial ice with a mind twice as sharp, they saw a weirdo. Dirk didn’t fake it. For all that he was ironically insincere, he never bothered to play the social game. He didn’t act the way you were supposed to act. He didn’t say the things you were supposed to say. It was like he couldn’t be bothered to act like a normal human being.

Which was fine with Dave. As far as he was concerned, every minute Dirk wasted acting like someone other than himself was just one less minute he was spending being the coolest guy in the universe.

But sometimes it made things harder for you both. Mostly him, but sometimes you too.

They didn’t like him. Not the adults, not the other kids, and especially not the moms and dads who came to adopt. They didn’t get him. That was their loss, as far as you were concerned.

Except when it was your loss. Like when he couldn’t just do what they wanted for five minutes to get what he wanted, or when he just wouldn’t let things _go._ You tried explaining it to him, that if he’d just play by the rules it would all go so much easier. It’s not like it mattered. It was just acting, just playing a role to get what you wanted. It was just doing things the way other people did them. It wouldn’t mean anything if he just followed along to get what he wanted.

Dirk didn’t get it. He wouldn’t do it. Looking back, you think maybe it was because he _couldn’t_. But back then it was so infuriating. It came so easily to you, being a part of the crowd and playing the people around you like a DJ’s sweet, golden fingers play across his turntables. It was impossible to think that there was something you were better at than he was. He was better than you at everything. You learned from _him_ , not the other way around. It was inconceivable that there was something Dirk couldn’t do or didn’t understand. Therefore, everybody else had to be right. He was just being stubborn. All those times that the _different_ inside of him wasn’t obvious enough for you to see, that’s what you assumed. Sometimes it made you furious. You’d live to regret that.

Those regrets started when you were five years old. Almost six, in fact. Dirk was watching one of his favorite TV shows, My Little Pony. You were watching it with him, ironically. You had just begun considering that maybe Dirk’s enjoyment of the show wasn’t as ironic as yours. He collected the McDonald’s pony toys. He even brushed their fake, plastic tail hair as he watched. You had also considered that maybe Dirk had discovered a new level of irony that was reached by being so sincere that it somehow came full-circle onto itself and became ironic again. The concept was both mind-boggling and infuriating. You didn’t get it, but you couldn’t admit that you didn’t get it. So, all other options being impossibly uncool, you decided to fake it. This was the beginning of a long-standing habit.

Some kid you don’t even remember now said something you can’t recall to Dirk right in the last half of the show. Something about Dirk’s favorite pony, you remember that much. You rolled your eyes at the comment, forever ironically amused, just like Dirk taught you to be, at just how uncool some people are. You don’t even bother turning around. Dirk will take care of it, you knew, just like he always does. Besides, not like it was directed at you.

Dirk gets up, just like you expect. He drops his pony in your lap, which you know is an unspoken command to actually pay attention to the show so you can fill him in later.

You keep your eyes glued to the screen, knowing from experience how intensely he’s going to grill you on the details. You are oblivious to everything else around you right up to the point where you hear a scream.

You turn in time to see the offender drop to her knees. Blood spreads across her shirt faster than you see it drop in the dim light of the TV room, like it’s appearing by magic. The kid’s fingers are coated. It’s on the floor. She’s crying the kind of cry that’s mostly screams, uneven breaths, and whimpers.

Then Dirk kicks her. She falls backwards onto her back, and you swear you can hear her head hit the wood.

“Shut up or leave,” Dirk orders in the same voice he’d tell you to get him a soda or that he was going outside. In his _only_ voice, because unlike everyone else, Dirk only has one.

The kid scrambles to her feet and runs away. You almost expect Dirk to follow her, but he doesn’t. He’s satisfied. He walks, perfectly relaxed in the strange way that he always is after a fight. Like none of it matters anymore.

He sits down beside you, even though that’s not where he was sitting before. He takes the pony out of your lap and readies the little brush for its hair.

“Tell me,” he says, and for a moment you honestly have no clue what he means.

Dirk shouldn’t have done that. You don’t just do that. You don’t just hit people for making fun of a TV show. And even if you do, you don’t make them bleed. You don’t hit them again when they’re already crying.

But Dirk did. And he’s smarter than you. Dirk knows everything about everything. So it has to be OK. Right?

You launch into a shoddy explanation of what you saw in the few seconds he was gone. There’s not much to tell, but you only remember half of what you should. The rest was knocked out of your brain by the shock. Fortunately, Dirk silences you before you even get to the first ‘um…’

You’re actually surprised when the adults come and drag Dirk out of the room. He resists. They’re showing the preview for next week’s episode. He has to see it, and he fights up to the exact point that it ends. After that, he comes willingly. Really, sometimes you wonder why they bother making things so difficult.

You try to follow, but they won’t let you. You hate when they take him away from you, but you hide it. Just like he taught you to. You also find a way to listen on the other side of the wall, your ear pressed to the window, just like he taught you.

You can’t make out the words well, just the tone of voice. Dirk isn’t saying much. The adult talking to him goes from stern to questioning. You hear a question you can’t make out trail off into silence. Dirk’s not answering this one. The question is voiced again, and again it’s met with silence. The third time, the voice is yelling. He’s threatening Dirk, and the threats come through the window loud enough for you to hear. You’re not too worried. Not until you hear the final part.

_“Is this funny to you, young man?”_

Oh, shit. You suddenly understand everything that’s going on behind that door without needing to see. Dirk’s doing one of his things. One of those things that nobody gets because they’re just so fucking weird.

He’s laughing. In the face of what is most likely the most dangerous force in your young existence, Dirk Strider is laughing. Or at least smirking. Maybe giggling.

You want to scream through the window and tell him to stop, even though you know he can’t. He told you that once. It’s one of the few, precious secrets he’s trusted you with. Sometimes when shit gets too real for even him to handle, he just… breaks a little. His pokerface breaks, and what leaks out has nothing to do with what he’s feeling doing and everything to do with Dirk being completely out of control.

Dirk knows everything. He knows how everything should be. Only sometimes he doesn’t know everything and things aren’t how they should be. That’s what happens most of the time when he loses his cool. He gets as furious as a hurricane. Even the adults can’t stop him. You’ve pretty much accepted that as just another Dirk-ism, even if the adults haven’t.

The times like this, though, you just don’t get. But you know what it means. It means Dirk is scared. It means that after you hear the sound of the slap, the laughter just gets louder.

You turn and run when you hear someone shout at you. You don’t see him again until dinner, where of course he doesn’t talk. Back in your shared room, you get him to give you the details.

“What do you think happened? I’m in trouble.”

“How bad?” you ask. You can see the mark on his face. It’s all you can think about.

“Grounded for two weeks. Got to talk to some people,” he mumbles like he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t. “Where’s Rainbow Dash? Did you get her?”

You inform him that you put his precious McDonald’s pony is right where he always keeps it, regardless of the fact that he’s already found it by the time you get the words out. And you figure that’s the end of it.

It’s not.

You figured the grounding was the actual punishment, but you learn quickly, quicker than Dirk does, that the “some people” he’s got to talk to are a much more serious concern.

At first he’s cagey about what’s going on in the meetings. All he’ll say is they ask him a lot of weird questions and try to make him talk about stuff. He doesn’t understand what’s going on any more than you do, which scares you.

You press him harder as the meetings continue. He opens up easier than you would have expected.

“You’re seeing a shrink,” you blurt out after you hear only a couple of the questions.

“Seems like it,” he says. You can tell he’s embarrassed even through his flat tone. “Not like I have much of a choice.”

Only the bad kids have to see shrinks specially like this. The ones that nobody wants, even the home. You don’t say it. You don’t have to.

You drill Dirk as hard as you dare, getting every last bit of information you can on him. Sometimes making the adults back off was as easy as saying the right thing at the right time. Reform, and all that bullshit.

The trouble is, Dirk isn’t saying the right things. The questions, which seem so obvious and simple to you, completely confound him. He’s not playing ball. He’s going to lose this war. And maybe there’s nothing you can do about it. Not this time.

It is in that moment that you realize that Dirk Strider needs your protection. There are things Dirk can’t do. People just don’t get him, and he’s incapable of making himself understood. He’s you’re brother. He’s the coolest guy you know. But he’s also _different_ in a way that nobody seems to understand. You don’t even understand it, but you’re the closest he’s got. You can’t fuck up like this again.

You swear then and there that no matter what the future brings, you are going to stand stalwart between your brother and the world.

-

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are considering the various merits and potential hazards of building a robotic duplicate of yourself.

There are the obvious rewards, like having a fucking roboclone of yourself. The only thing cooler than Dirk Strider would be two Dirk Striders. Not to mention the more practical benefits. You are a very busy guy. It’d be nice to have a helping hand (or twelve) around to take some of the load off. And, if you’re in one of your particularly sentimental moods, you guess it would also be nice to have someone like you around.

But then there are the obvious downsides, like having a fucking roboclone of yourself. The only person who would be better at getting under your skin than Dave would be you. Not to mention the more practical drawbacks. You know a metric fuckton about robots. It would be the biggest pain in the ass just to locate the parts, not to mention a reliable power source. And, if you’re in one of your particularly realistic moods, it is pretty much impossible to create a program that perfectly imitates human behavior, much less a specific human’s behavior.

You try not to think too hard about that last part. You plan and theorize the impossible because… because it’s nice, OK? It’s hard being one-of-a-kind.  It’s hard, and no one understands. Not even Dave. He gives you these looks every time you do something even remotely outside the bounds of the mundane. You can see it clear through his shades, even the painfully cliché aviators that he’s started wearing instead of your matching pair.

You’ve always known that in some sense you were different from all the other kids around, but it’s only recently that it’s started to seem like a bad thing. You have even unironically collected several songs which make mention of the phrase “alone in a crowd.” Alright, fine. You have actually delved through every dark corner of the internet to comprise a full compendium of every song produced in the last century that even vaguely referenced the feeling of loneliness. (Loneliness as did NOT relate to romantic love in any way, shape, form, or fashion. You had to draw the line somewhere.) It has been a veritable challenge convincing Dave that you weren’t succumbing to teenage melodrama bullshit, because you are in fact succumbing to teenage melodrama bullshit.

The game’s changed. Somehow, as if on divine or cosmic cue, the whole world has shifted right under your feet.  You don’t know when it started, but you know you were painfully slow on the uptake. And now you’re left behind in some way you can’t even name, much less fix. Even Dave is different. You think that maybe you’re different now too. You think maybe you hate that more than anything.

Dave’s been in the room at least five minutes already, trying to get your attention in that particularly obtuse way of his. You keep meaning to tell him that acting like he has absolutely no interest in you at all or how much of his precious time you’re wasting when really he’s on goddamn pins and needles waiting for your attention _really_ isn’t ironic, just passive as fuck. You’ve never had the heart to go through with it though. He’s your little bro, and you can’t bring yourself to take him down a notch unnecessarily. He’d take it harder than you’d mean it. You know he would. It’s kind of cute, actually, how seriously he takes the little things.

But if you’re resolved not to say anything, you’re left in with the conversational ball dropped dead in your court. There is not even the threat of bounce left in that ball, by which you mean that getting the conversation (that’s going to happen regardless of whether you want it or not, thanks to Dave be a persistent little bastard) started up again is going to be a real pain in the ass. It always is.

You take a moment to get a solid handle on the frustration that rises up the moment you give in and shove your robo-plans to the back of your mind. When you’re certain you can safely maintain the patented Strider cool, you push back your desk chair. By the time Dave turns his head away from the window he was so pointedly observing, you’re already falling across his lap.

“Pay attention to me,” you demand, savoring the irony you’re sure he doesn’t catch as you settle your arms around his neck.  If he even thinks about touching your face or your shades you are going to pull every hair on the nape of his neck. You are not even kidding.

“Jegus, bro. Needy much?” he says, rolling his eyes even as his hand instinctively goes to balance you.

“Like your whole reason for coming up here wasn’t to shower me with attention.”

“Like the whole world revolves around you.”

“Like your whole world doesn’t.”

“Like you’re actually that cool.”

“Like you even know what cool is.”

“Like you aren’t spewing bullshit every time you call something ironic.”

“Like I’m incapable of redefining ironic.”

Dave seemingly has little to say to that. Or maybe he’s just sick of you crushing him. He tries to stand up and dump you, but you throw your arms and legs around him, giving him the option of getting dragged down with you or acquiescing. He smartly chooses to plop his ass back in place. You let go a moment before impact, so you crash down more on the couch than on him.

“So, bro,” you push deliberately onward, “what’s up?”

“What, a guy’s got to have some kind of hidden agenda to get some face-time with his big bro?”

You snort and settle back on the couch, making a show of getting comfortable. As far as you’re concerned, you did your part. You put the ball back into play. It’s in his court now, and you’re not going to drag it back over the net just because that’s how he wants you to play. If he wants to talk, then he’d damn well better get started. You intentionally pin one of his arms down as you stretch your legs across his lap, just to irritate him.

The silence drags on for what’s a nice, couchy moment for you (spent lapsing back into your robo-musings), but it’s obviously too much for him to handle.

“Alright, you caught me. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“That took less time than I was expecting.”

“Jegus, give a guy a break, would you? It’s not every day you get life-altering news, _Dirk,”_ he says, rolling his eyes. You hate it when he calls you by name, and he knows it.

“The whole point, _Dave,_ ” you say, putting a matching emphasis on his name, “is to keep people from knowing every little thought going on behind that thick skull of yours. Anybody can walk around slack-jawed and dull-eyed when they’ve got nothing going on.”

“Yeah, well maybe I don’t want to keep the whole goddamn world behind a steel wall all the time,” he snaps, suddenly irritable. He jerks his arm out from under your leg and shoves you off him. “Now will you shove your bullshit life mantra up your ass for a second and listen to me?”

You pull your legs back into your own personal area, far over on the other side of the couch. You can still feel the almost-electric burn where his hands touched your bare skin. You resist the urge to rub at it.

“Alright, bro, you’ve got my full attention. What’s this life-altering news?”

You catch his eyes flicker over to the doorway. Not that you can actually see his eyes through his shades. What you catch is subtler, the way his eyebrows twitch slightly and the minute muscles around his eyes move under his skin.

“Nobody’s around, bro,” you assure him. You always know when someone’s around. You always catch the little noises and movements they make. You have never been able to understand how Dave can miss such obvious stuff. You are convinced it is because he’s constantly wrapped up in his own little dramas. The kid’s constantly worried about other people: what they’re thinking, what they’re doing. And not just that, but what they’re thinking about what he’s doing. That’s Dave’s problem, you think. He’s insecure.

“Bro,” he says, leaning in and looking about half a second away from exploding, “we’re leaving this shithole once and for all.”

~

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are moving into your first adoptive home.

Ever since some bullshit incident when you were just a little tyke, your bro has been classified as “hard to place.” You’ve heard a couple of pop-psychology labels thrown at him over the years (oppositional-defiant, OCD, bipolar, sociopath, ADD, ADHD, gifted-but-underachieving, psychotic, schitzo), but none of them have stuck. Mainly because the guy personally pushing for a psycho disorder labels got mysteriously transferred after you convinced Dirk to tell the shrink about the time that son of a bitch hit him.

That was the first time you managed to protect your big bro, and it hasn’t been the last. Dirk’s _otherness_ hasn’t faded with time. If anything, it’s intensified. Or maybe your understanding of it has just intensified. You can make patterns of it now. There are all these different situations that always come back to the same basic weakness. Weaknesses, you guess, because it’s not all the same thing. You don’t really have a clue what you’re talking about, seeing as you’re not a goddamn psychologist or brain surgeon or whatever the fuck he needs, but at least you’re trying. Trying being much more than you can say anyone else in this fat trashy world has done for him.

And yeah, sure, sometimes it’s a pretty shitty job. Like when he gives you shit for it, in particular. But somebody’s got to do it, and you’re all he’s got. And, well, he’s all you’ve got too. There’s an element of selfishness to your pseudo-chivalry. If he gets taken away because he does something you don’t stop…

You don’t have to worry about the what-if’s anymore, because as you clearly have already established, you and your bro are getting the fuck out of Dodge, by which you mean you are getting adopted. Sort of, anyway. Blah, blah, adoptive process. Whatever. So not important. In fact, it is the least important thing you could be thinking of at a time like this because you are honest to god going to live with John Egbert and his dad. This is seriously a thing that is happening. You could not possibly be more serious about this if you tried. Well, maybe you could stop completely spazzing out about the fact that you are going to be living in an actual fucking family house in less than a week, but you’re not sure you’re capable. Not that you care, because you’re going to live with John! Just… so cool. Life is so cool.

What’s not cool is how utterly unpsyched your bro Dirk seems about this massive life change. You swear to Christ he’s been dragging his feet all morning.

“Look, just put the goddamn pony in the goddamn box,” you finally snap. You’re sitting on the corner of his bed, jiggling your foot at ninety miles per hour. You’ve been hovering. Of course you’ve been hovering. You are incapable of doing anything but hovering. You had all your shit packed and parceled three days ago. You wish (and not for the first time), that you could just skip this part and go straight to the moment where you walk through the front door of your new home for the first time.

Dirk shoots you a dirty look over the top of the box he’s meticulously packing. He doesn’t bother explaining (again) the importance of carefully wrapping anything that could possibly be demolished by a nuclear strike in several layers of newspaper. You suppose you should count yourself lucky.

“Look, just carry the stupid box yourself. That way you don’t have to worry about your shit getting wrecked.”

It’s not the first polite suggestion you’ve made. It’s not even the first time you’ve made that suggestion.

The corner of his mouth twitches in what you’re certain is a thinly-veiled expression of his frustration. But that doesn’t stop you any more than the other hundred subtle suggestions that you’re getting under his skin. Hell, frustrating him is half of the reason you’re here. (The other half being you’ve got absolutely nothing better to be doing except _waiting._ )

“I am not risking my girls,” he says, slow and even and practiced thanks to the hundred thousand times he’s said it before.

“It’s not like you’re protecting them from everything anyway. What if we get into a wreck and the car catches on fire? Your newspaper won’t protect them then. In fact, it will probably only make things worse, seeing as newspaper’s flammable.”

You feel the air rush past your face long, long before you hear the crash against the wall.

“Get out.”

The dictionary bounces off the wall behind you and across the bed. You turn, wide eyed, and survey the damage. The wall’s got a nice, new dent to match the dozen others, and the old dictionary practically exploded. You didn’t even see him move.

“Jesus!”

 You jump a foot into the air when you realize Dirk’s now standing right in front of you.

“Get out,” he repeats.

When you don’t move fast enough, he grabs you by the arm and pulls. You’re thrown out on your ass just as quickly and easily as the unfortunate dictionary. He’s got the door slammed and locked behind you before you can even regain your footing.

You’re nanoseconds away from giving the door a nice kick and round of swears when you hear more bumping and thumping from inside. From the sounds of it, Dirk’s adding yet another dozen wounds to his already very scarred wall. You almost feel bad for setting him off. But not really. The bastard deserves to be rushed. You swear to Christ, sometimes his whole purpose in life is to be as difficult as humanly possible.

But you decide it’s in your best interest not to press the issue any further. You’d really rather not have a black eye or busted lip when you’re trying to make your first son-ly impression on Mr. Egbert. You have a father figure to impress now.

Fuck, that is so weird to think about.

Your own empty room is already being taken over by its new resident. You slink off to the TV room, hoping to waste… however long it is before the Egbert’s arrive. The clock on the wall says you’ve still got four hours to go. Four fucking hours.

And, as luck would have it, it’s Brony time.

~

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are forcing yourself to eat a family dinner. This is one of the hardest things you have ever done.

The man at the head of the table you are supposed to call “Dad.” He has a name, but you keep forgetting it. Dave elbows you every time you call him Mr. Egbert and John quietly reassures you that it’s OK to think of him as your Dad too. You don’t know how to explain to them that you don’t know how to think of anyone as your Dad, much less this picture-perfect 50’s father who looks down on you over the edge of his pipe.

You’ve got a new room upstairs you share with Dave. It’s Jane’s old room. The walls are all a pastel blue. That you don’t mind so much. You’ve spent the past two weeks trying to arrange your things, but you still find yourself sifting though boxes and rooting around in the bottom of the closet to find what you’re looking for. You are constantly rearranging, which you admit is probably part of the problem, but you can’t stop. Nothing looks right. This is probably due to the fact that you keep trying to turn your new room into your old room. Even the light looks wrong, refracted off the Jane blue walls. You know this, but you can’t stop, no matter how stupid you keep telling yourself this all is.

Dave sits beside John every time you eat together. Dave sits beside John even when you are not eating. The Egbert’s ever so subtly implied that your place was between Jane and “Dad,” who sat at the head of the table. Dave’s spot is directly across from yours. You think they’re trying to promote family bonding through osmosis. The high school kids on one side, middle school on the other. Old sandwiched between new. Adopted siblings sandwiched in between the natural born Egbert’s. You feel the walls closing in on you every time you sit down.

“Dad” asks for his children to please hold hands, like he does before every meal. Yesterday, you even had to go to church. That was an Egbert family ritual you were happy to be left out of the first week you were here, but now it looks like that was just a temporary, polite reprieve. You dressed up nice and sat for a full hour (and them some) in a hard-backed pew. You fought the urge to clamp your hands over your ears at each clinking ping of the ancient piano’s upper register. You spend so much time clenching your jaw shut these days that you have a permanent headache. You can’t sleep. You’re tired.

Dave eagerly grabs a hold of the Egbert’s hands, “Dad” on his left and John on his right. Dave is their new puppy, excited and eager to please. You are not a puppy.

Holding Jane’s hand was almost OK. You knew Jane from school. You had even given her a few choice high-fives over the years when she pulled off a particularly cool prank on a particularly deserving tool or (more frequently) when she put her choice deduction skills to the test and unraveled a radical mystery. She even bakes you a cake for your birthday every year. Or any day worth celebrating. Or any day at all, really. The girl does enjoy her baking.

But putting your hand into the warm, calloused grip of this stranger you’re supposed to call Dad? It makes every muscle in your body tense.

You grit your teeth and put your hand in his. You don’t flinch as his fingers close around yours like a vice. Instead, you obediently slip your fingers into Jane’s to complete the circle.

While the Egbert’s are rattling off the holy nursery rhyme Dave’s still struggling to memorize, you’re thinking about séances, spirit circles, and other savage fairy tales. You’re wondering how delusional people have to be to buy into the minor differences. You don’t chant along.

Dave kicks you under the table. The little bastard bulls-eyes on your shin. You grit your teeth harder. Beyond that, you don’t even budge.

But Dave does. You can feel it from across the table. And his new daddy notices too.

Cue another lecture from daddy Egbert. You literally have not gone a single day in the Egbert household without suffering at least one exorbitantly long-winded lecture, always revolving around how to make “Dad” proud. Even when you make him proud, you get a lecture on how proud he is of you. You’d find it ironic if it wasn’t so sad.

Dave looks appropriately chastised as “Dad” explains the importance of allowing others to burn in hell, or something. You’re not exactly paying attention. You’re too busy holding your tongue. You’re too busy not retaliating. You are trying very, very hard not to call Dave out on his bullshit, because new “Dad” wouldn’t approve. Not of your language. Not of the substance of your own little lecture either, you think. You could tell him about how Dave used to mock Serket’s psycho little sister when she crushed on Kankri and went religious for a semester. You could tell him about all the times you tore a thousand holes in Kankri’s circular logic while Dave laughed from the sidelines. You want to sell him out for the turncoat he is.

But you won’t. Because that’s not what brothers do.


	2. Differences Part 2/2

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have really fucking had it with your brother. The moment you get your shared bedroom door shut, you shove him as hard as you can. The walls are too far away to aim for, so you force him down onto his bed.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss. If this was the home, you’d be yelling. This isn’t the home, though. This is _your_ home. And Dad didn’t raise kids who got into fights.

“Lay off, Dave. I’m not in the mood.”

He glares at you over the top of his shades as he pulls them off. This lasts only a fraction of a second, after which he starts kneading his forehead. Like you’re the one who’s causing him problems. This is the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him the full two weeks you’ve been here.

“Why do you have to be such a dick?”

He just snorts at that.

“I’m not kidding around, asshole. Would it kill you to just once, just fucking once, play along? Look at all they’ve done for us!”

He ignores you. You are not going to hit your brother. _You are not going to hit your brother._

“Don’t you want to live here?” you demand to know. Really, you honestly want to know if your brother appreciates anything you’ve done for him, because here you are in the lap of fucking luxury and he acts like it’s a prison sentence.

“Yes.”

You wait for him to elaborate. You are hoping there’s more than that. There has to be more than that. Anything more than that. “Yeah, bro, it’s pretty nice here.” “Sure, it’s pretty cool that you managed to find us _a fucking family_ , bro.” Anything at all. _Anything._

“Do you actually want to live here?” you ask again.

“I said yes,” he snaps back. There’s the faintest hint of irritation on his shade-less face. You know that’s all you’ll ever get from him.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re an ungrateful little shit, basically. Do I have that right?”

“Careful now,” he says, locking eyes with yours for practically the first time since this conversation started. “You don’t want to anger your new daddy, do you?”

“Oh, haha. That’s so fucking funny. Excuse me for actually trying to show a little gratitude to the guy. I know you’re too much of an epic badass to understand the definition of the word, but it’s what we lesser mortals do when someone has taken you under their wing and treated you like family.”

“You want to know what part of this I’m having trouble wrapping my head around? The part where you actually want to be a part of this antiquated nuclear family bullshit. Why don’t you explain to me exactly where that mad impulse came from, lil’ bro?”

“Everyone wants to have a family of their own,” you scoff. “Everyone who isn’t an emotionless freak, at any rate.”

Dirk ignores the low blow, but the reflexive guilt stabs at you anyway. You don’t do that. You don’t ever call him out on his… whatever. You just don’t, because you’re his brother and the only real family he’s got.

“Not you,” he replies without missing a beat. “You never gave a shit about any of that, and don’t try to bullshit me by saying otherwise.”

“No, I just decided to put several weeks worth of effort into getting us adopted for shits and giggles. You caught me, bro. What can I say, a dude’s gotta have his hobbies.”

“You’re so full of shit I can smell you coming a mile off, and yet you think you’ve got the right to come over here and demand to know what’s wrong with me? I’m not the one who’s changed,” he snaps, voice rising to match yours.

You bite the inside of your cheek and fight the impulse to scream and punch your idiotic, oblivious brother in the face. You force out a slow, even breath through your nose. You are really not going to hit your brother.

“I like John.”

At least that seems to get through to him.

“What? You mean like… like…”

Look at that. The great Dirk Strider tripping over his own tongue. It’s a shame you can’t fully appreciate it with the way your heart is playing fucking staccato in your throat.

“Like I actually fucking… _like_ him,” you squeak out. You are literally incapable of being more direct than that.

You can feel your cheeks burning as you watch him process. It’s strange to watch him think without his shades. There’s too much in his eyes, too much fucking orange. Just looking at them makes you want to grab him and… You don’t even know. Just grab him and shake him until he actually looks at you, freakish Strider eye to freakish Strider eye, and then…

Finally, he speaks.

“Bro, he’s _straight.”_

There’s no shock, no surprise in his voice. No anger or disbelief. He just says it, in that flat, infuriatingly matter-of-fact voice of his. In the only fucking voice he’s got. Like that’s all there is to it.

_You are not going to hit your brother._

He blocks your wild punch easily. His face is completely blank. You want to bust his goddamn nose in and see what face he makes then.

You lash out again, aiming a kick at the leg you hopefully bruised earlier. He locks his legs around your ankle, and you lose it completely. You’re a split second away from hitting him with everything you’ve got. Arms, legs, head, anything. But before you can so much as flinch you’re falling, tumbling backwards, head over heels, as he throws you to the ground.

“Get off!”

You’re flat on your back. Your head bangs hard, even on the carpeted floor. His knee is buried in your gut. For a moment, you can’t scream because you can’t breathe. It doesn’t stop you for long. You land a blow on his face with your free hand. You hit his nose, you can feel it. But it wasn’t a punch so much as a desperate flailing of limbs that got lucky. The blood you’re so desperate to see isn’t there.

He grabs your arm and twists it high above your head with the other. Trying to pull out of his grip makes it hurt even more. You are forced to stop trying, but you don’t stop screaming. You don’t stop swearing and snarling at his dead, empty eyes. You hate him. You fucking hate him.

_“Get off! Get off! Get off!”_

He wrestles both of your scrawny wrists into a single hand. The other he raises. A perfectly formed fist, just like he taught you, hovers right beside his perfectly blank face. You gasp, your anger forgotten in that still moment. Then you flinch.

You feel the impact and open your eyes just in time to see his fist slam down again. And again. You can feel the wood under the clean, pale carpet bend and bounce with each impact. You can feel the force of the blow through the floor. You can’t stop watching. The fingers of his other hand dig like steel bars into your wrists. You think he’ll crush your bones without even realizing it. He’s screaming, wordless. You know his face isn’t calm and blank now, but you can’t look. You hear something crunch on the next impact. If you move, it might be you.

You don’t hear the door open. You don’t realize who it is dragging him off you until you see the pipe bounce off the wall, knocked from his mouth. A million hands are grabbing at you, pulling you up, tugging on your wrists. Instincts kick in, stronger than fear, stronger than anger.

“Stop! Stop!”

You shake off John and Jane. You move as fast as you can, just like your brother taught you. The broom at Dad’s hand is pointed at your neck and your furious brother is at your back. You half-expect to be crushed from both sides, but you guess somebody must have been listening.

“Stop! Just stop!”

The room grows still and quiet. Dirk grabs a fistful of the back of your shirt. You can feel his hand shaking.

You look up at Dad’s eyes and know the worst is yet to come.

-

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have spent the past several hours (or what felt like it, anyway) talking to a goon in a suit.

You don’t recognize the goon, but he talks like he knows you. You aren't sure if that’s because he’s read your ever-growing record or if he’s actually been sent to evaluate you before. One thing’s for certain, this goon is one of Jack’s lackeys.

After the last guy, the one who hit you, got a convenient “promotion” across the state, Jack came. And he came with a real hate-boner for you. He has made your life absolutely miserable on more than one occasion. Jack has the power to destroy this new home of yours. Jack is impossible to beat.

This stubby goon of his may not be much to sneeze at on his own, but you’ve been watching your tongue nevertheless. You don’t take risks when it comes to dealing with Jack, even indirectly and especially when you’ve got this much to lose.

The goon’s counterpart, a plump, cheery woman in a white knit sweater, has been talking with the baby Egberts. The goon spoke to Daddy Egbert before he sat you down on the living room couch. Nobody gives a shit what Dave thinks.

“Well, if there’s nothing else you want to say…” the goon titters, fumbling his papers back into his cheap suitcase.

This is a mess. A big, fucking mess. You broke one of the bones in your hand and fractured another. When the ER doc gave you the news, you figured you were in for a full-on cast, not the thin splint and metal finger traps they fitted you with after your x-ray. Dave says you should count yourself lucky. You don’t feel lucky. You just feel broken.

“Wait a minute,” you say.

The goon stops stuffing his briefcase. He lifts his pudgy face to give you a blank, confused look.

You aren’t sure what you’re going to do next. You’ve been dreading this moment all day, ever since you realized Jack was going to get involved. When Jack gets involved, things die. If you said you weren’t scared, you’d be a liar.

Right now, you’re thinking about Dave. You’re thinking about his stupid crush on the kid who calls you a weird, stuck-up loser. The same bucktoothed Egbert boy who glared at you and rolled his eyes at what a _sore loser_ you were and what a _stiff,_ all because you didn’t laugh at his jokes or _appreciate_ his pranks. You’re thinking about how stupid every last bit of this is, the way your lil’ bro pulled you into his idiotic little schemes and dragged you into this mess. Into this house and its perfect little family. You’re thinking about Dave’s stupid little heart and how it’s going to get crushed by a stupid little boy.

In short, you’re pissed off. You can’t believe how idiotic Dave’s being. It infuriates you. You can’t decide who you want to beat the shit out of more, Dave for being stupid enough to fall for the little shit or John for being the rigid homophobe that he is. Now your hand’s broke and there’s fuck all you can do to either of them.

Al you can do is talk to this stubby goon and think about Dave.

“Yes?” the goon prompts, and you know what you’ve got to do. Dave’s not going to like it, but you’re not sure you give a shit. He didn’t seem to give too many shits about you when he started this. Now it’s coming full circle. A karmic cycle of shit.

“I want to discuss the state of our current living arrangements,” you say calmly, “and how to change them.

-

Your name is Dave Strider, and Dad just told you that your brother is leaving.

At first you’re convinced he’s lying. You look over at Dirk, who’s leaning against the wall like Dad just announced he baked yet another fucking cake, not that he was tearing your goddamn family apart. Dirk just shifts his weight subtly in answer, but you’re used to subtle.

“No.”

Dad tries to defuse your impending explosion, but like hell are you going to let this go down without a fight.

“No! You can’t do this! Look, he… he just doesn’t know what to say, but he’s sorry! I told you, he’s sorry! He really is, I promise! And we’ll never fight again, I promised you! Remember? I promised!”

Your throat is tight and your words are screechingly high. You’d be embarrassed if you had the energy or attention to spare.

Dad looks sad. No doubt he’s disappointed at your reaction. But that doesn’t matter anymore, not now that your family is on the line.

“Don’t do this,” you repeat, lower but no more calmly.

“Dave,” Dirk calls.

Finally, you think he speaks. But after what he says next, you wish he hadn’t.

“This isn’t his decision, lil’ bro.”

 _Jack._ That’s your first thought. Jack destroys everything good in the world. But you’re looking at Dirk and he doesn’t look angry. Your bro never gives up. Not ever.

“You didn’t.”

There’s nothing in Dirk’s posture that says he’s ready for a fight.

“You didn’t,” you hiss. “Tell me you didn’t.”

You give him half a second before you’re right in his fucking face. It’s more than enough time for you to be certain.

“You fucking idiot!” you scream, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A broom slams down between your face and his before you can get so much as a twitch from him. Dad suggests that you go to your room until you can discuss this rationally. You consider telling the old man to go fuck himself. You aren’t sure what stops you. Maybe Dirk’s right. Maybe you have changed.

You don’t look back as you stomp your way upstairs. You can tell that Dirk isn’t following you. You wonder what he’s thinking, if he feels any guilt at all or if he is as disappointed in your outburst as Dad is.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed before John comes up to your room. You’ve been contemplating the stupid fucking ponies on the far wall.

“Hey,” he says, hanging on the doorframe like he’s scared to come in.

“Hey,” you reply, not moving from where you’ve been sitting for the last however long it’s been. Once you decided you weren’t going to trash everything your brother loved in a petty act of revenge, there wasn’t much else left to do but sit around and hope everything magically fixed itself.

“Can I come in?” he asks timidly.

It pisses you off.

“Suit yourself,” you say, sharper than you mean to. You catch him flinch, and that pisses you off even more.

He eventually sucks it up and joins you on your bed. You don’t move. You’re not in the mood to throw his thus far pathetic efforts a bone.

“So…” he mumbles. “What’s up?”

You turn your head just enough to give him one of your patented ‘John Egbert, are you really that much of a moron?’ looks. He rolls his eyes and pushes you half off the bed, ruining your stoic moping pose.

Dad wanted me to tell you that he’s not mad at your brother. And that he didn’t want to send him back. That wasn’t his choice, it was the people from your old home. He told your brother that too.”

“I know.”

It’s all Dirk’s fault. You know that. What you can’t figure out is why he’s doing it. Does he hate it here that badly? Is this some act of revenge? Or is he just sick of how much you’ve changed? You can’t figure him out. You can’t ever figure him out.

“You don’t want to leave, do you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says firmly. “I like having you here. You’re my best bro. You know that, right? And I’ve always wanted a brother, so it’s… I just mean it’s really great to have you here, dude.”

Everything about what he just said pisses you off, and you can’t put your finger on why.

“Yeah,” you reply hollowly. “I like being here too.”

You can hear Dirk mocking you even now. Bro, he’s _straight._

“John, come here.”

He looks confused, but he still turns enough for you to grab hold of his collar and pull him forward.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting.

“Agh! Dude, what the fuck!”

You’re not listening. You’re running downstairs as fast as your legs will carry you. You are not listening.

“Gross, Dave! …Dave?”

It’s not until you run face-first into Mr. Egbert that you realize you were looking for your bro.

“Hey, Mr. Egbert? I need to use your phone.”

-

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you didn’t know how much the thought of leaving your bro was killing you until he drags his suitcase downstairs to sit next to yours.

“Rumor has it you kissed baby Ebgert.”

“Rumor has it you made out with head cheerleader Lalonde under the gym bleachers. That is so mundane even you can’t make it ironic,” he snaps back. "You were right. Don’t rub it in. My poor little heart’s still all tender from the brutal reality check. Treat me gently, bro. I’m liable to burst into tears at any second.”

You keep meaning to tell Dave that being honest in a sarcastic tone of voice really isn’t ironic, but you just can’t seem to go through with it.

As the two of you settle together in the back seat of the home’s van, you’re thinking of an old memory you’d nearly forgotten. You’re thinking of Oreos and Dave’s chubby baby face smeared with black crumbs. You aren’t sure how normal people would classify the feeling crushing down on your chest, but you think it might be love.


	3. Distances, Part 1/2

Dirk skips his own graduation. You aren’t sure whether to slow clap at his clandestine “ironic statement” or just punch him right in his smug face for making you sit through it, camera at the ready.

You don’t find him until long after the dull ceremony has ended. When you do finally catch up with him, you can’t decide what surprises you more, the fact that he’s actually wearing a cap and gown or that it’s traffic cone orange.

“Dude, where did you even find that hideous get-up? Please tell me it’s a costume. I don’t think I could handle it if some sorry slobs were actually forced to wear that thing and pretend to be serious about it.”

“This,” he drawls, “is a one hundred percent genuine cap and gown from an actual educational facility that’s not the least bit fictional in any way. Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“That is the best thing I have heard all day.”

“That is an insult to our lovely Lady of Ink and Valedictions.”

“Oh, Porrim’s speech. Yeah, that was pretty sweet. Did you get to hear it?”

“Nah, but she ran it by me last week. The part where she highlights the modern feminist’s struggle by comparing it to the mockery the Cutie Crusaders receive for their, and I quote, ‘blank flanks’ was my idea. I’m a bit disappointed she didn’t wax a little longer on the cultural and literary significance of the show itself instead of focusing on the more political aspects, but I can’t blame the girl for playing up her own angle.”

“I should have known. Nobody else gives that many shits about My Little Pony.”

“That is a bold faced lie and you know it. I introduced you to the fandom. Don’t even deny.”

“Yeah, grown men in plush costumes of anthro little horse girls. How could I forget? Definitely a formidable fucking force we’re dealing about here.”

“Shut up and follow me. I want to take some pictures with that couple over there.”

You use up an entire roll of film taking pictures of Dirk with the other people’s families. You artfully cut their actual graduating seniors out of the shots. Dirk even plasters on a fake, picture-perfect smile for every equally phony shot.

You honestly can’t think of a better way to spend a graduation.

-

Your name is Dirk Strider. You are eighteen years old. All your plans have been made and thoroughly, irrevocably put into motion. As much as Dave would like to turn back time, you know this is the way things have to be.

“This isn’t permanent,” you remind him.

If looks could kill…

Dave’s pissed. Which you get, but… Actually, you don’t get it at all. What does he want from you? You can’t stay. And it’s not like you want to leave, which you’ve only told him half a hundred times already. So why’s he pissed at you and not the irreversible flow of time or some shit?

You don’t know what to say to him. Everything you can think of revolves around the inevitability of what comes next. You have to go, he has to stay, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it. But Dave hates that kind of logical shit. And to be honest, it sounds pretty hollow to you too. Dave’s mood is ever so slightly infectious.

When the taxi cab pulls up, all you can think is how stupid it is that you’ll have spent your last moments with Dave staring across the street. You panic. Jesus, you just… fucking _panic_. You cross your arms, like that’s going to alleviate the vaguely-agita feeling in your chest.

“I guess this is it,” Dave says.

“Guess so,” you force the words out.

All the fight just drains out of Dave in a single instant. It kills you to watch him give in like that. Your throat’s burning. You possibly just threw up in your mouth a little. Hard to say if it’s repressed emotions you’re vomiting up or today’s leftover tuna casserole. (That’s always been kind of a grey area to you.)

You’ve got to do something, but you don’t know what. What would Dave do if your positions were reversed? Would he give you a hug? You don’t like hugs. Besides, if you gave him a hug, he’d just think you were being weird or pitying him. But you’ve got to do something, so you just…

You just…

Kiss him.

And OK, alright, jesus fuck, that was pretty much the worst decision you could have made. You accept that, alright? You already accept that even though it’s only been two goddamn milliseconds and Dave’s just fucking staring at you. Why isn’t he saying something already? Jesus, you can’t deal with this. The cab’s breaks squeak and it’s like lightening across the back of your skull, but even that doesn’t dull the itchy, electric burn on your lips in the vague shape of his. You want to rub it away with the back of your sleeve, but you can’t move. Not until Dave says something. He has to, right? He has to say something, doesn’t he?

Dave’s eyebrows finally lower into a more natural position after what feels like three goddamn years, even though in reality the cabby hasn’t even thrown the parking brake yet. He’s still staring at you, and you’re just goddamn waiting. And to think, you could have spent your last moments staring across the street. You are a cunt. Why are you such a cunt? Wait, you can fix this. You just need to explain. You just need to find the right words. You just need a little time. And with the way Dave is still fucking staring at you, you’re pretty sure you’ve got plenty to work with. OK, OK, you’ve got this, now just think.

This is, of course, the moment Dave decides to respond.

He rocks forward on his toes and hooks a finger in your collar, dragging your frozen ass down to his level. Dave rolls his eyes at you, and you have half a moment to get pissed at him before he floods every working neuron in your brain with concentrated relief in kiss form.

He gets it. You finally take a breath as he pulls back. Of course he gets it. He’s your brother. He’s the only person in existence who would be able to decipher your panicked, incoherent attempts at actual human contact. And fuck, but you are so happy to be alive and here with him right now.

That’s just about the time the cabby coughs not-so-discretely into his hand. You load what little shit you have into the trunk and turn to Dave one last time. (No, not the last time. You’ll see him again. You will. Whenever you fucking what, no matter what, you’ll find a way.)

“Bye, bro,” Dave says. He holds out a fist for you to bump.

“Bye.” You bump him.

You catch a final glimpse of Dave in the side mirror as the car pulls away, then he’s out of sight for good. You relax, resigned, against the seats.

“So many of you nowadays,” the cabby comments. It takes you a moment to figure out what he means. “Not that I have anything against you people, but when I was growing up we just didn’t see folk like you out in the open.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh? I’m not hip with all the fancy new terminology. Kids these days have a word for everything. Even things that don’t exist! I swear, it’s a crazy new world we’re living in.”

“He’s my brother.”

And that’s the last word on the subject.

-

Your name is Dave Strider, and you hate school.

When you finally decide that there’s nowhere interesting enough to be worth the hassle of skipping, you find you’re lucky enough to run into your locker buddy. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

John looks like he’s been running, slightly red in the face and breathing hard. And no wonder too, when you look at the time. Precious baby Egbert’s never late for class. His darling daddy simply wouldn’t have it.

You think about cooly sauntering past him as if his presence doesn’t affect you at all (and in the process artfully avoid the awkwardness of trying to use your locker at the same time he’s using his), but then you remember you’ve got your history book in your backpack. It’s a forty pound deadweight. You don’t even have history today.

Fuck it. You grit your teeth and don’t even hesitate as you beeline for your locker. You are so cool, it’s like ice up in here.

Except for John, who jumps out of his own damn skin at the sight of you. John isn’t like ice. John is fucking antifreeze.

“Dave! …Oh, uh,” he stutters, stumbling over his stupid squirrel teeth.

You ignore him. You are doing a very good job at ignoring him. You are 100% certain that no one, especially John Egbert, saw the subtle shift of your jaw as you slipped your tongue between your teeth and bit down.

Before you know it, John’s locker door slams. You do not look as John stomps off to his homeroom. You feel pretty proud of yourself.

You take your time shoving the rest of your shit into your locker. You are OK. This is OK.

-

You are exhausted, right down to your core. You haven’t done half the things you meant to accomplish this week. You’ve unpacked more two boxes. You don’t expect any progress on that front anytime soon. You busted your food budget for the week on Wednesday because you couldn’t bring yourself to either brave the new grocery store at the end of the road or waste gas driving to the one near the home. You’ve been eating at McDonalds so frequently you think you’re actually starting to build up a tolerance to their nausea-inducing levels of grease.

Your boss is sympathetic, but only by so much. You told a customer that maybe they should put a specific piece of hardware into a specific port if they were that attached to their familiar if wholly obsolete name brand technology. A momentary lapse of judgment. Your life seems to be turning into one long momentary lapse of judgment.

You keep making plans and failing to follow through. You stuck your to-do list to the fridge with a scrape of packaging tape salvaged from a half-empty box. It fell off overnight. You haven’t even bothered to pick it up off the floor. You wake up in the morning with lead limbs and a head full of empty spaces. You’re living on broken auto-pilot. You shuffle around in the morning like you don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing because you honestly _don’t_ know. You stand in the shower wondering if you‘ve washed your hair yet. You keep forgetting things like deodorant and common sense. You’ll take off to work without your wallet and go hungry at lunch. Your work performance, usually impeccable so long as they don’t look too closely at your customer service record, has taken a major nose dive.

When your cell rings, your first thought is to let it go to voicemail. When you see Dave’s name on the screen it doesn’t completely wash the urge away. God, you feel like shit. You are shit.

You roll over on your back and put your phone up to your ear. The light from the window you’ve failed to put curtains on hits you right in the eye.

“Mm, hello?”

“Hey, bro. How’s life on the outside treating you?”

“Fine. What’d you need?”

“Shit, man. Guy’s gotta have an agenda to get some air time with his one and only bro?”

This conversation sounds excessively familiar. You roll over, somewhat away from the sun.

“Dude, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just…”

“You sound like shit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, unconvinced. “So… we still on for tomorrow?”

Tomorrow? _Oh._ Oh, no.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely. You know I wouldn’t miss it, lil’ man.”

God, it’s already Saturday? You are so fucking trashed. You want to skip out. You actually want to ditch Dave. You are as shit a brother as you are an entry level employee.

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

That was honestly your best effort at sounding enthusiastic.

“Sorry, man. You just caught me at a bad time.”

“Really? ‘Cause you just said that everything was fine.”

You are too strung out to deal with Dave’s fucking emotional bullshit. You know he’s hurting, stuck at the home on his own. You get an earful of that practically every time he’s within bitching range. You’re sympathetic , yeah, but… You know, it’s not like you couldn’t use a little sympathy yourself right now. Then again, maybe what you really need is a nice kick in the ass to get you off this goddamn bed and back to doing the shit you should be doing. You are eighteen fucking years old. That’s like fifteen years too old for afternoon naps.

“I just meant that—”

“No, I get it. You’re busy. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Dave,” you start, but you’re too late. He’s already hung up on you.

Your phone bursts as it hits the far wall. The momentary lapse of judgment feels good right up until your bleary eyes see a faint mark in the plaster. You’re now thinking about your security deposit and how bad it’s going to wreck your budget if you actually broke your phone instead of just popping the battery pack out.

You pull yourself up out of the bed to assess the damage. Great. Just fucking great.

-

Dirk shows up nearly half an hour late. But that was OK. You’d given up on him showing up at all a couple of days ago.

You abort a losing round of Solitaire and head out. You find him waiting for you on the sidewalk.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t offer any explanation, which is also OK because you’d given up expecting one weeks ago.

“Sup?”

His hair looks like he’s been sleeping on it. You are pretty sure he’s not wearing deodorant. You are definitely sure he hasn’t brushed his teeth when you lean in to give him a kiss.

You don’t even know why you’re going along with this kissing shit anymore. The first time you were overemotional and Dirk was just a fucking wreck, all stiff and jerky like he gets when he’s freaking out. It just made sense. It made sense _then_. You are pretty sure you should have called it quits ages ago, but for some stupid reason you haven’t. You blame lack of opportunity.

The corner of Dirk’s mouth twitches. His sleeve snakes up to rub at his lips.

“So, where do you want to eat?”

“Dunno. Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Mexican?”

“Not feeling it.”

“Chinese?”

“Eh.”

“Applebees?”

John works there now. But you don’t feel like explaining why that’s actually kind of a big fucking deal to your emotionally retarded brother, so you just keep your mouth shut.

“You’re not making this easy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one we have to make all kinds of weird accommodations for, am I? We can’t eat at Taco Bell because you don’t like the smell. We can’t eat at the pizza buffet because you don’t like hearing the busboys banging silverware around. We can’t eat at Chick-Fil-A because the corporates pulling the strings are secretly douchebags, like all suits aren’t secretly douchebags. You don’t like it when the waiters walk behind you in sit-down restaurants which rules out anywhere we might possibly get seated at a table instead of a booth, and you don’t like the fries at Five Guys because their fries have, and I quote, a weird texture. By the way, the texture is potato.”

You’re honestly not even trying. This is just the tip of the iceberg. You’re probably a dick for calling your bro out like this, but… No, _he’s_ the dick. And here you are always having to pussyfoot around him, and for what? Just ‘cause he’s your brother? Fuck that noise right back up the damp orifice it squelched out from.

“…We can eat at Chick-Fil-A if you want,” he finally says, seemingly for lack of any other response.

“Forget it. Don’t care where we eat. Not even hungry.”

You wind up eating at the closest place in walking distance. It’s the same old local burgers and fries place you’ve been eating at since you were old enough to sneak out with a pocket full of spare change. You both order the same meal you’ve ordered the past million times you’ve eaten here, and neither of you seems inclined to conversation.

Staying at the home would have been better than this.

-

You get fired from your job when instead of giving your boss a piece of your mind like you really want to, you decide it’s a brilliant idea to throw the phone into the rear display case. Then, in another stunning display of your genius (no, really, you’ve been tested), you shoved one of your coworkers into the front desk hard enough to bruise when she tried to talk you down.

Fuck it. Like retail was your end-game anyway.

You spend a week frantically budgeting (mostly by not eating or using any water or electricity) and devoting all of your rage into a new mix to show your other boss in the hopes of making a living off of something you enjoy. You then shelve the mix to work on something that might actually impress your boss by “appealing to a wider audience” like she’s always telling you to do. You beg, you plead, you wheedle and negotiate. You almost call it quits when your boss finally caves and gives you a trial run on some better hours.

You can’t fuck this up. You seriously can’t afford to fuck this up. You need this job. You can do this, you know you can. You’ve just gotta change it up a little like she says and you’re golden. This is all you’ve got, all you’re ever going to have, so you’ve got to make this work.

Of course you fuck it up.

Your boss gives you a talk about changing your expectations. She says a lot of things like “niche audience” and “unique,” that you know basically boils down to you aren’t selling with the right crowd. You are welcome to keep doing your late night sets on the slow weekdays. She even talks about _maybe_ having you come in as a monthly themed night, to “pull in more of your crowd.”

You tell her you understand. You thank her. You leave.

You’ve got internet for maybe another two days at best, so you spend the rest of the night appreciating it while you have it. You haven’t checked your email since you got fired from your other other job. Thirty-nine unread emails. Aren’t you Mr. Popular?

Thirty-nine emails all from the same website where you post more weird niche shit that nobody but you wants to exist in the world, all of which are alerting you of new comments or likes. Maybe you are Mr. Popular?

You’re half expecting a new and improved wave of hate when you open the first email. You are pleasantly surprised when this is not the case. You are pleasantly surprised thirty-eight more times. Seems one of your puppet-themed videos made it into the hands of a fellow kink artist with a fuckton of followers.

That was maybe seven minutes ago.

-

You haven’t heard from Dirk in almost a month, despite the fact that he bought you a cell of your very own for the sole purpose of being able to contact you without having to deal with the bullshit nazi group worker who guards the phone like it’s his own personal possession.

Whatever.

Your group of acquaintances has always had its distinct subgroups, but this is the first time that you and John haven’t traveled in the same ones. Which is cool. It’s as cool as a cucumber that’s been chillin’ in a well worn in la-z-boy with a cold one in one hand and a fat joint in the other. The only way that cucumber could possibly be more cool is if it had a direct line of liquid nitrogen pumping straight into its cucumber veins.

God, that was stupid. Even in your own head it was stupid. You’ve been so off your game lately you don’t even know where the playing field is anymore.

That, of course, has nothing to do with John. Or your asshole brother.

You sit at your lunch table, surrounded by your friends. Terezi sits to your left, Rose to your right. Karkat sits across from you, sandwiched between Kanaya and Nepeta and spitting vitriol. You play it cool, like you always do. You blend in by standing out. You surround yourself with ironies and do your very best not to think about the table behind your back.

You don’t think about John. You don’t think about the friends surrounding him. You don’t think about the way he blushes when you dare to walk to close. You don’t think about the way he laughs and smiles until he sees your face. You don’t think about the times you’ll catch him in your peripheral, rounding the corner only to turn face and run away just to hide from you. You don’t think about the way you still think about him, just like you don’t think about the way he thinks about you now.

More than anything, you don’t think about the rumors that have worked their way through the grapevine to your ears. You don’t think about how John might have started them. In fact, you are making a genuine effort not to think about the world beyond your tiny bubble of insular friends at all.

-

It isn’t until a fan asks if you’re going to do a Halloween-themed video that you realize the date.

Holy shit, it’s like a week before Halloween. Not even a week, you calculate as you pop up the date box on your phone. Four days. Where did October go? Dave is going to have your head.

You bring his name up from your contacts list. You’re a split second away from calling him before you realize that it is, in fact, three in the morning. Probably not the best idea to give your bro a call now, especially considering it’s a school night.

Shit, the two of you always do the most ironic matched costumes. You doubt you’ll have the time to coordinate anything elaborate in the few days you have left. You’ll make it up to him. Buy him something nice, maybe. You’ve got the spare cash now.

You make a mental note to call him tomorrow before you begin brainstorming ideas for a disturbingly delicious Halloween smuppet vid. Maybe something candy themed…

-

You don’t know what to dress up as for Halloween without Dirk around to be your costumed pair. The realization pisses you off almost as much as the fact that you still haven’t heard from him, excluding a few brief texts.

You almost talk Terezi into doing an ironic Japanese school girl costume with you (you had her sold on the neon colored wigs), but of course she couldn’t understand the true ironic intent behind your glorious idea. Also, she wanted you to wear frilly red panties. A man has to draw the line somewhere.

Then, right as you were about to win her over sans undies, Vriska swept in and stole her away for some stupid LARP bullshit. The universe is obviously out to get you.

Your list of friends who you’d actually want to do a matched costume with is running pretty thin. Rose and Kanaya have been working on some kind of knit _and_ sewn hybrid monstrosity since like April, Jade and Nepeta are doing… something really strange with animal parts that may or may not be real. Everyone you could think to ask after that is just pathetic scrapings at the bottom of the barrel.

So you suck it up, and loudly tell everyone you know that dressing up at seventeen is so lame that even attempts to make it ironic wrap back around so hard they instantly become unironic again. Most everyone with the courage to contradict you (namely all the people you would have asked to do a matched costume with you) calls you out on your bullshit, but you spend most of your time these days in the local library. Who needs friends (or brothers) when you have over 500 followers? Not Dave Strider. IRL just drags your cool down.

You spend most of Halloween on the home’s one ancient computer. You make a brief appearance at the annual kiddy party, but nobody over the age of fifteen stays for long. You show up for just long enough to snag some pizza and what little decent candy there is before slinking off to finish the SBAHJ arc you’ve been ever so diligently working on.

You expect someone to come in at ten and banish you to your room. You also expect one of your so-called friends to drag you out for something even resembling festivities. You are equally disappointed on both counts. The clock ticks on.

You wonder what you’re bro’s doing tonight. What do adults do when they’re not constantly watched over by evil group workers? Not get on pesterchum, obviously. You don’t sit around waiting for him to get on.

You finish the arc in record time, even with the amount of time you spend bullshitting around on the internet just to make sure you aren’t trying too hard and accidentally ruin the entire ironic feel. After ten passes and then some, you assume you’ve been forgotten. You take full advantage of the opportunity to look up some dark internet corners of the NSFW variety. If there was one thing your bro taught you, it was how to get around the paper-thin proxy walls the tech-unsavy group workers installed on this dinosaur. You spend a lot more time lingering on the Bad Dragon products page than any person reasonably should, despite the fact that you only know of it at all because of “lol look at these massive horse dildos.” You also contemplate the size of the Wal-Mart brand cola can you snuck in with you. No way something that big is ever going in your butt. How does something that big even make sense, in terms of things people are actually sticking in their butts and/or vaginas?

Ew, now you are thinking of that tentacle-shaped one in Rose’s vagina. Not an image you ever needed in your head in the history of ever.

OK, you are still thinking about it. Ew, ew, ew.

Gross.

Go away, Rose.

Please go away?

Dicks. Dicks everywhere. Phallic imagery out the wazoo. Rose with that tiny smile she gets every time she says something even remotely psychotherapeutic. While riding a tentacle-shaped dildo.

Why is your life so terrible?

Now that your dick has run off with your ball, thoroughly assuring that you are never going to have a boner again, you turn your attention back to productive things. Like making shitty comics on the internet. Your bro gave you your very own flashdrive so you don’t have to worry about any of the shitheads you live with finding your SBAHJ folder hidden deep within the program files. Maybe you can go ahead and get a head start on the next SBAHJ arc? Or maybe just some stupid filler shit. But planning in advance kind of goes against the whole philosophy behind SBAHJ…

You’re still thinking about something remotely productive you could be doing with your stolen hours when you hear the sirens.

You get up and go to the door. You can hear frantic footsteps in the hall. They’re getting closer. You reach out for the handle, but before you can open the door it slams into your face. Your shades slide twice as far across the floor as you do. You swear to fuck if they’re as broken as your face, you’re gonna—

“Shit! Oh, Dave, it’s just you.”

Vriska slams the door. She looks around wildly for a moment before flying over to the filing cabinet. She starts dragging it across the floor, only to freeze at the horrendous metal screech against the tile.

“Help me!” she orders. You do, but only because you’re not a rat. Homies before pigs.

The two of you lift the cabinet off the floor and place it carefully under the door handle.

“Give me your shirt!”

You whip your shirt off without thinking. She shoves it under the door handle, a neat trick that will quiet the noise of metal on metal if anyone tries to open it. With this in place, from the outside it will appear as if the door is locked. You’re not supposed to do this. It’s against the rules, and one of the many things that can get your computer privileges taken away for months at a time.

“Virska, wha—”

She’s got her hand over your mouth before you can even get the question out.

“Shut the fuck up!”

You push her hand away, but do as she says.

“Fuck! Turn off that monitor, dumbass!”

She’s turned it off herself before you can even think about moving. A second later she’s back beside you, dragging you over to the corner of the room and far away from the thin, wire-mesh glass windows.

The both of you are breathing hard in your tiny, cramped corner. You seriously have to pee, like, right now, but Vriska’s got a death-grip on your arm. Not like you could go anywhere even if she didn’t. The sirens have finally died down. You wonder whose arrival they were signaling, police or EMS? You’d ask Vriska if you thought you’d get a truthful answer even in less dire circumstances.

The two of you sit still as adrenaline-pumped statues. You can feel her shaking where your arms and legs are crushed together. The minutes pass and it doesn’t get any easier, just more painful. Your leg cramps. When the pain gets to be too much you finally shift positions. Vriska tightens her grip, nails like razors in your arm, but the world beyond the blocked door remains silent.

Someone runs down the hall and you hold your breath, but they pass without so much as a glance at the blocked door. You finally tear your eyes away and try to relax. Vriska lets you pull your arm away and even put a few inches between the two of you. You’ve got nail-shaped indentions in your skin so deep you bet they’re going to bruise. Vriska relaxes too, after a moment. She adjusts the end of her white fairy skirt a little lower and then looks at you reproachfully, like everybody doesn’t already know you’re not in to what she’s got under there. You roll your eyes.

You’re just about to sneak out and to your room, Vriska be damned, when you hear what sounds like several adults coming your way. Vriska’s hand shoots out, grabbing hold of you again.

They have flashlights. The beams sweep across the hall, flashing through the window. You shove yourself back against Vriska, cringing away from the light as it hits the wall. Police. It’s gotta be police. What the fuck has she done this time? Doesn’t matter, you guess. She’s not gonna tell you and you’re not gonna turn her in either way.

One of the policemen grabs the door handle. Your heart jumps up in your throat as the handle bounces against your shirt.

“I’m going to need a key to this door.”

 “The only person who has a key to that door works days. He locks it up before his shift ends. There’s no way anyone’s in there.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes. That room is strictly regulated. We keep the expensive electronics in there. You know how these little shits are, they destroy everything they get their hands on. It’s locked more often than not.”

“Alright, let’s keep moving.”

You don’t breathe until long after their footfalls have faded.

“Shit…” you sigh, relaxing. “What the fuck was that about?”

But before you can get an answer, Vriska’s laughing her manic little head off.

“Hahahahahahahaha! Oh, god!” she wheezes, pulling herself back up to her feet. She has to stop again before she takes even one step, doubled over again in laughter.

You go and retrieve your shirt and shades while she’s too busy being hysterical to answer you.

“Best. Hallo—ahahaha!—Halloween. Ever!” she declares. “Come on, help me move this back.”

The two of you grab the cabinet again. Vriska sporadically laughs so hard you’re afraid she’s going to drop the damn thing, but you somehow manage to get it back in its original spot without making too much noise.

You’re about to open the door and leave this crazy bitch to her own devices when she grabs you by the neck of your shirt and slams you full-body against the wall.

“Hey, Davie?” she says, faking sweet. “You’re not going to tell anybody about this, are you? You never even saw me tonight, did you? You were just being a looooooooser, locked up here all by yourself, weren’t you? But you weren’t ever here. Got it?”

You shove her off.

“Get the fuck off me. I’m not a fucking snitch.”

“You’d better not be,” she says with a chilling grin.

You’re out of the room before she can drop any more threats, but you swear you hear a voice echoing down the hallway chasing after you. It sounds something like “Because I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you too.”

Creepyass spiderbitch.

-

You swear to god, if Dave doesn’t pick up his phone this time you are going to drive down there yourself, visiting hours be damned.

Dave doesn’t answer.

Shit! You kick the corner of the futon. (It’s cheaper than both the bed and the couch! Plus, it’s way more comfortable than the sorry excuse for a bed you used to sleep on.) OK, you are going to call him one more time…

Dave doesn’t answer.

That’s it. You grab your keys and head down the stairs. You have to double back because you forgot to lock the door. You keep calling Dave.

You’re three flights of stairs up from ground level when he finally fucking answers.

“Jesus, what the fuck is it? I’m kind of busy, not that you’d take the hint and just—”

“What the fuck is going on, Dave?” you ride over the top of him. “Are you alright?”

“What? Of course I’m alright.”

“I heard on the news. They said that a seventeen year old boy fell off the roof of the home yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t me, so chill your tits.”

“Who the fuck was it then?”

“Tavros. Tavros Nitram, Rufioh’s little starry-eyed worshiper. Remember him?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Shit, is he OK?”

“Yes, Dirk. He’s peachy keen after getting thrown from a fucking second story building.”

“Do you think you could possibly cut the sarcasm for five seconds and just tell me what the fuck happened?”

Dave sighs static in your ear.

“Look, I don’t know much either. Just that Tav was up on the roof and then magically was on the ground. Rumor has it he was so drunk he thought he could actually fly, but…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just stupid shit I’ve heard. I don’t know anything for certain, alright? He’s still in the hospital. The workers are bitching about insurance and medical costs, but they don’t know anything either. He’s in intensive care.”

“Tavos wouldn’t just walk off the roof.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he would. What the fuck do we know… Shit! Don’t throw stuff at me! That’s not what I meant! I just… Look, bro, I’ve gotta go. I’ll tell you when I know more, alright?”

You yell at him to stay, but the line’s already dead.

-

Terezi ‘s the one who eventually fills you in.

“So you think somebody pushed him?” you ask, mentally debating on filling her in on your own Halloween adventure.

“Somebody like Vriska. Maybe. Who else would do something that malicious? But…”

“But what?” That seems a pretty straightforward conclusion to you.

“Why would she do it? That’s just plain crazy, Dave! Even for her!”

“I dunno, ‘rezi. Not like this is the first time she’s gone a little too far. Remember how much we all used to hate her in middle school? Jack lets her get away with so much shit, and it just keeps snowballing! She hasn’t gotten any better since then, unless you include getting better at playing the victim and turning shit back around on you. She doesn’t even understand the concept of what ‘getting better’ would mean!”

“Dave, she’s my friend!” Terezi interrupts.

You wonder if maybe you pushed it a little too far. Vriska’s always been kind of a sore spot between the two of you.

“I know she’s done some horrible things, but despite what some may choose to believe, she can actually be very empathetic. She’s more than just her bad moments! You should know that better than anyone.”

“Me? Why me? I’m nothing like that crazy bitch!”

You are legit offended right now that she’d even consider you comparable.

“I wasn’t comparing _you_ to her, stupid!”

It still takes a second for the implication to click.

“That’s not fair. He just…”

“What, Dave? Doesn’t mean to hurt anyone?”

“I get that looking for morals in a hellhole like this is about like looking for water in the desert, alright? But that doesn’t make pushing your friends off roofs OK! I don’t care what shitstain kind of universe we live in or how flexible the rules get, there’s still a line Terezi, and she crossed it.”

Terezi’s voice goes a little too sharp and cold.

“On what grounds are you making that accusation, prosecutor? That is a wild accusation to make without any substantial evidence.”

“You want evidence? I fucking saw her!” you say before you can think twice about it.

Terezi’s eyes go wide, though the rest of her doesn’t so much as twitch. That’s when you realize that Terezi’s not making excuses for her. She genuinely believed Vriska didn’t… No, _couldn’t_ have done it.

“You saw her push him?”

“No, after. I was in the computer room when it happened. Didn’t realize anything was going down until I heard the sirens. A second later, she bursts in the room, blocks the door, and drags me off to the corner to hide with her.”

“That’s circumstantial,” she says, but you can tell she doesn’t dismiss your testimony.

“The way she laughed after, when the coast was clear… It couldn’t have been anyone else, Terezi.”

She takes a moment to contemplate that. You use the same moment to wonder just what you’ve gotten yourself into. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. Anyone with eyes could see that. And Terezi’s going to be a part of what happens next, no two ways about it. You wonder how far your involvement in her involvement is going to drag you into this impending supernova.

“Don’t tell Aradia,” she finally says. “Don’t tell anyone else. Just let me take care of this.”

You’re not sure you like the sound of that.

“Like I was gonna, but TZ…”

“Don’t, Dave. I’ve got to do this.”

“Yeah, but do what?”

“I don’t know yet… But you were right. She crossed a line. I can’t let that go.”

Neither can you.

-

Dave’s texts get as infrequent as they are insubstantial. You’ll catch him occasionally on pesterchum, and the two of you will spend hours at a time talking about nothing, from SBAHJ to the latest episode of My Little Pony.

Part of you feels relieved. The other part is too busy being an entrepreneurial porn star to care about anything other than getting your numbers up.

You don’t know exactly why you haven’t told Dave about your new “job” yet. You’re not exactly ashamed, but… Every time you think about telling him, you can’t help but to imagine him getting wigged out. Dave always freaks out when you take things the tiniest step over the arbitrary division between ironic and just plain fucked up that he calls “the line.”

But what Dave doesn’t know is that there is no line. The line is bullshit. It’s a circle. The moment you take a single step over it, you find yourself right back on the same side you started. Irony and sincerity wrap right back around on themselves like a mobius double reach around oroboros snake fuck.

Maybe you’ll make a video about an oroboros smuppet fuck? Haha, yeah. That’d be sweet.

-

Tav comes home in a wheelchair, but you’re too busy being glad that he came home at all to think much about how horrible it would be for someone to just come along, someone who you thought was your friend because you’re a little too trusting and a little too stupid to see the truth, and steal your _goddamn legs_ from you. The group workers have been bitching behind closed doors about the renovation costs, what with the ramps and shit.

Tav doesn’t have to go to school until he’s done with his fancy physical therapy, but unfortunately you do. For the first time in living history, you’re actually glad to go to school. At school, there’s a huge buffering wall of people between you, Vriska Serket, and all the people who she’s gathered to her “noble” cause.

Of course, being at school does mean having to be that much closer to John Egbert. Avoiding someone is a lot easier when the physical distance between the two of you can be counted in miles instead of meters.

Your mouth gets you into so much shit with that guy. First the whole stupid kiss thing, and now that shit yesterday over Vriska. Shit, you were just trying to warn him! Tell him that all those rumors Aradia was starting were actually true, that the whole goddamn school actually hated her for a legit reason. What’s so terrible about that? But you guess you should have known better than to think he’d believe a _fag_ like you over his practically girlfriend.

God, that pisses you off so bad, almost as bad as Vriska herself pisses you off. Jegus, you never thought the day would come when you’d be comparing John to Vriska, but apparently your future is full of all kinds of shitty miracles.

It’s not just the fact that she has to go and push one of your friends off a goddamn roof, now she’s gotta play the victim when people try to call her out on her shit. And not just with John and the few other sad saps she’s managed to stack up like sandbags against the flood of accusations. Now she’s singing her tune to the police. It made you sick at your stomach to watch her little performance when the police came ‘round looking for her. She had on this cutsie dress she must have stolen from Kanaya’s closet, and she looked so _scared_ and so _innocent_ and so _cooperative_.

“Did you see that shit?” you whisper to Terezi once the adults clear out. “Who the fuck does she think she’s fooling?”

“Everyone,” Terezi says, and you know the look she’s got on her face. It’s that calculating, slightly pouty look she gets when shit must be put right and bitches must be brought to justice before the world can start turning the right way ‘round again. You’re a bit surprised. Watching Vriska get dragged out by the police was pretty fucking satisfying, in your very personal opinion. So why isn’t she as happy as you are?

“Wait, you don’t think she’s gonna get off?”

“Of course she is,” she rolls her eyes like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “There’s no evidence, Dave. And Tavros isn’t even willing to testify against her. All they have is the word of one very angry teenage girl against another.”

Shit, that is a point, you guess.

“Unless you decide to step forward, of course.”

“Why’s it gotta be me? I’m not the one who got pushed off a roof.”

“Because you’re the only one besides Tavros who could offer any condemning testimony. What you saw could make their case, Dave.”

“I’m not a snitch, Terezi. You know I can’t.”

Aradia broke the cardinal rule going to the police. The laundry she aired at school was within bounds, but this is taking it too far. Nobody’s backing her up and nobody’s going to.

“You mean you won’t.”

“What, you’re saying you approve of what Aradia’s doing?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying? ‘Cause I’m gonna be honest here, chica, I’m a little bit lost. First you say that this is exactly what you wanted to avoid by me keeping my mouth shut and now you’re saying I should spill the beans to fucking cops.”

“I just meant that you have a choice, Dave. You’re an active participant, no matter what you choose to do. Stop pretending that you’re safe on the sidelines.”

-

You still do sets at the club every so often, but they’re getting less and less frequent. You’re becoming that once a month special that your boss told you that you were going to become however long ago that was. You are OK with this.

To be honest, if it weren’t for Jake you’d drop that scene all together. The thrill of performance has faded. You think it has a lot to do with how you no longer crave fame. You have fame. Well, you have enough of it. You don’t think you want any more. Getting up on stage like that, you’ve got to want to be loved by the crowd. You’ve got to want to stand up and stand out and make a difference for that one brief, brilliant moment. You’ve got to have something to say and you’ve got to say it loud, put it out there for the whole world to see. Trouble is you’ve got nothing left you want to say to this scene.

But damn, that ass! It will be the ruin of you yet.

You would sell your soul to make him dance. The way he haunts your every waking thought, you think you might have already given it away. Jake English owns you, body and soul.

He meets you out back after the crowd dies down. You kiss him against the back alley wall until he complains of the cold.

“Come back to my place,” you beg, eager and needy.

But he makes excuses for the millionth time. You remind yourself not to push, that everybody’s got to work through their identity discovery at their own pace. Your dick doesn’t want to listen, though. You plead, you wheedle, you negotiate. No sex, just late night cuddles. Snuggling together under a large blanket while watching the stupid movies he loves. Falling asleep together in the dim glow of the screen. You want it. You want it so bad. You need him to agree.

He finally breaks. Yeah, you knew he couldn’t say no to this pretty face, not for long. You drag him to the car, stealing kisses at every opportunity. You love him like this, fresh from the dance floor. You love his sweat and his eagerness, the way he gets caught up in the magic of it all, your magic. The way it opens him up to you and you rush in like you’ve found home.

God, that’s it. The realization hits you just as strong and as fast and as heady as the smell of his skin. You’ve found home. For the first time in your life, you’ve found home.

-

Your phone rings while they’re pulling Aradia’s body out of the water. You don’t understand. You literally forget for a moment that the world outside of this one moment has kept on turning.

You let it go to voicemail. You aren’t sure you could have spoken if you did answer it.

She looks so tiny in the group workers’ arms. Her skirt’s been ripped off. By the current or the adults, you can’t tell. Nobody seems to notice how wrong that is but you.

They lay her down on the bank. They pose her like porcelain before they start beating on her chest. What do they call that again? You can’t remember. The part of your mind that goes and finds that shit out has switched off. Hell, the part of your mind that moves at all has switched off.

Emergency resuscitation.

But it’s only resuscitation if she revives, isn’t it? What do they call emergency resuscitation when it fails to resuscitate?  They found her almost a mile from where the tree house is. Was. A mile from the site of the accident. They found her a mile from the splinters of wood and old, shitty furniture stolen from roadsides and dump sites. A mile from where all of you dug through debris looking for what you didn’t want to find.

Jack told you that he wasn’t calling 911 until he was sure that Aradia was actually in the water. Why hasn’t anyone called 911 yet?

Aradia vomits muddy water into the air. It rains back down on her face, but she just keeps vomiting more. They help flip her onto her side. She heaves and you breathe.

“Get the fuck out of here, you morbid shits. This isn’t no goddamn peep show.”

You scurry off like the helpless little bug you are.

You go to your room because you can’t think of anywhere else you could hide. You don’t want to face this. You don’t want to even think about how this could have happened. Unfortunately, it seems someone called dibs on that brilliant idea before you could.

You follow the sound of muttering to your half-opened closet door. You find Sollux hiding in the corner, head between his knees.

“Hey. Sollux. You in there, buddy?”

“I am so fucking stupid. I don’t deserve to exist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I warned her. I warned her about the rot. And then when AA got home I just… I didn’t even think! FUCK!”

Sollux’s fist flies out, narrowly missing your nose before it adds a shiny new dent to the wall.

“Jegus! Just calm down, alright? Aradia’s OK. I saw her myself. So watch where you’re swinging those things, alright?”

Sollux finally lifts his head. Every inch of his face is wet, either with snot or tears.

“She’s alive?”

“Definitely alive and kicking. I 100% guarantee… No, 200% guarantee it, alright?”

“Oh… Good.”

And that’s apparently all he has to say on that subject.

“So,” you say, because you can’t let this go, not without at least trying to find out the truth. Something like this can’t just happen. “What were you talking about a second ago?”

“Just about how I’m arguably the single greatest waste of carbon in the history of the universe. I know our relationship is unhealthy, but I never imagined this is how I’d hurt her.”

Now he’s giggling. Great. Like you didn’t get enough of the manic giggling from your brother.

“Sollux, the tree house fell. You didn’t cause that.”

He couldn’t have. Could he?

“That’s what you think, shit for brains,” he sneers. “Don’t fucking tell me what I did or didn’t do.”

“Fine. Enlighten me, then. How exactly did you cause a twenty year old tree house to magically crash into the river right when your girlfriend just so happened to be inside it?”

“Because I’m the one who told her _everything_ about the quick fix job Equius and I did to keep it standing! I gave her the information she needed to sabotage it. FUCK!” he screams again. “I am such a massive idiot! How could I do something so stupid?”

You don’t have an answer for him, so you throw him what feeble comforts you can muster.

“It doesn’t matter, alright? She’s fine. It’s going to be OK.”

He sucks snot back up his nose as he pulls himself up.

With a glance down at you, he says, “You’re an even bigger idiot than I am if you think things are ever going to be OK again.”

-

You got a text message at 2 pm reading “im fine dont worry they werent arresting me.” You have been trying to figure out exactly what happened last night ever since.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Dave! You _tell_ me when shit like this happens!” you shout into the receiver.

You are so legitimately pissed off right now at so many different people that you don’t even know where to begin.

“Sorry, bro, I was kind of in the middle of a crisis! Or maybe you didn’t catch that, what with the almost-drowning and all. Real sorry I didn’t give you a call while I was doing all that shit.

“Someone should have told me! I’m your brother, for fuck’s sake! I deserve to know when you get involved with the police!”

“I wasn’t the one getting arrested! Would you chill your goddamn tits? I was barely involved. And by the way, you’re not my legal guardian. Why would anyone even think to call you?”

He is just trying to piss you off now, you know it.

“Dave, cut the shit and tell me what happened.”

“I already told you what happened!”

_“Dave! Tell me what happened!”_

 Your elder brother status must still count for something, because he actually shuts the fuck up and gets to explaining.

“Me and Terezi went to the police,” Dave says slowly (also mockingly, the little shit). “It was about the tree house falling. And Halloween. We knew Vriska had her fangs deep enough in both events that we could get the adults to do something, so we did. That’s all. Seriously.”

“Don’t give me that PC bullshit, Dave. Something is going on. Spill before I come down there and beat some answers out of you!”

“Would you get off my back about it already? Believe it or not, my life is none of your goddamn business! I don’t have time to worry about pampering your ass right now, so for once in my goddamn life would you just back the fuck off and leave me alone?!”

“Fine. I will fuck off, you little shit. Sorry for caring.”

You scream wordlessly at your phone when you see he’s hung up on you. You are so, so fucking close to throwing your phone across the room when you cringingly remember how much the fragile little thing costs. You settle for throwing a smuppet. The resulting squeak and even the explosion of stuffing out of a half-finished seam do little to improve your mood.

Goddamn it, Dave.

-

You wait until the dead of night to check your voicemail.

“Hey, bro. Just calling to check up on you. See how you were doing and all.”

You feel yourself getting tense. You take a deep breath and run through the relaxation exercises he taught you.

“I know I…”

Dramatic pause while he works around the phrase “have been a gigantic tool lately, and by ‘lately’ what I really mean is ‘since the dawn of fucking time,’ but please forgive me bro.”

“I haven’t been the best brother lately,” he finally substitutes. “I’m sorry, bro. I really am. But—”

Here it comes.

“I’ve been going through a lot of shit lately. Getting on my own two feet, you know? It’s been a lot of weird hours and a lot of hard work, but I think things are finally turning around.”

He must be having such a rough time, the poor baby.

“So… Thanksgiving’s next week. I was thinking maybe I’d just meet you for dinner at the home Thursday, maybe bring something that doesn’t suck ass. Like maybe some AJ and an actual decent ham. That’d be nice, right?”

Yeah. It’d be a real Hallmark moment.

“And then I was thinking picking you up early Friday and… Oh, hey, that’s right. Haven’t told you yet. I’ve got a car now. It’s just a cheap POS Honda, but the AC works. Plus I got this guy I know from work to set me up with a good deal on a decent radio and speaker set. Definitely beats the bus. You’ll see it soon enough. Anyway, I was thinking I’d pick you up early Friday and we could go buy you something cool while they’ve got the sales going on. Money’s been coming in steady lately, so you name it and it’s yours, bro.”

You relax your jaw. You even drop your phone on the pillow by your ear so you can relax your fingers. You melt into the sheets. Your brother’s voice sounds so far away without the speaker flush to your ear.

“Can’t wait to see you. I mean that. It’s been too long. My fault, I know, but… Miss you. Really do.”

The ironic thing is you’ve finally stopped missing him. You wonder if he’d get a kick out of that sick irony. Maybe you’ll tell him when he shows up. If he shows up.

“See you soon, Dave.”

You hit the end button until your phone goes back to the home screen. You pull up a new text window and put your brother’s number in the box. You think about all the things you could tell him, like how Aradia’s never been the same since she fell into the river, or about how your roommate’s been disturbing levels of unstable. You think about telling him how the only thing that came from selling out to the police was your shiny new reputation as a rat and a traitor because the fucking original evil that is Jack came in and told the police how worthless your testimony was since you both “had it in for the little girl.” Motherfucker just didn’t want an investigation, you know it. Too bad what you know counts for shit.

Or maybe you could tell Dirk about the boy whose bed you’re sleeping in right now.

The text you send to your bro just reads “sorry.”

You turn back over and burry your face in messy black hair. You pull him tight against your bare skin, like you’re trying to steal every ounce of the comfort he can give you. You’re not sure if comfort and consolation is a firm foundation for a relationship, but after everything that’s happened you honestly couldn’t give a shit about anything but the moment you have right here and now.

You must squeeze too tight, because he starts to stir.

“Don’t fall asleep in here, idiot.”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “I won’t.”

Karkat falling asleep in your arms feels familiar in a way you can’t name. The comfort he gives you replaces something inside you didn’t know was missing.

It makes you miss your brother.

-

Christmas is evil. Of this you are thoroughly convinced.

You have to call and cancel on Dave. You hate it, but you’ve got to get these orders filled. You stupidly never put a limit on the amount of orders that could be requested at one time, and your clientele is overflowing with cash to spend just like the rest of America this time of year. The end result of this terrible equation is you having about three times as many orders as any one human could reasonably manage.

You are equal parts exhausted and exhilarated. You’re working so many hours each day that your fingers are in a perpetual state of thorough aching, but you have never been so widely desired before. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t getting you into the Christmas spirit. You have more money than you even know how to fit into your budget, which is a strange and beautiful problem to have. You’re thinking about throwing out your monthly budget out all together and just spending whimsically. Perhaps you’ll buy a steak tomorrow. Maybe you’ll even buy a nice one.

Probably not, though. Chances are you’ll spend another day working your fingers to the bone. You are never, ever going to take this many orders at one time again. You are probably giving yourself ten years worth of repetitive motion damage in the span of a single week. You’ll probably order from somewhere that delivers for the fourth night in a row. You’ve actually been rationing your remaining toilet paper supply because you don’t have the time to go out and buy more.

But even with all that, you are still so very thoroughly in love with your job. You honestly could not think of a better way to spend the holiday season. And to think, just a couple of months ago you were looking true destitution in the face. It’s a real holiday miracle. There’s only one thing that could make it better.

“Hey, Jake? Yeah, it’s me. Look, I was just wondering if you were interested in helping out a poor soul in need on this fine holiday season? …I’m wounded you would ever doubt me. This is a legit emergency. …Do you think you could bring some toilet paper with that pizza?”

-

Dirk sends you a picture text on the 28th. It’s a photo of what looks like a new contender for the most horribly ironic clothing option ever invented. It’s like someone vomited pastel and neon over an otherwise wholesome outfit and turned it into the stuff of nightmares.

You of course agree immediately to wear it to the New Year’s Party.

He picks you up at 6 o’clock on New Year’s Eve, exactly when he said he would. He also has the pastel colored candy themed fashion shits that he promised to acquire.

The two of you of course get dressed together, like always. You fuck with each other’s hair, like always, just like you give each other gargantuan amounts of grief. Just like old times.

And, much to even your own surprise, instead of getting pissed that this isn’t the way things are all the time anymore, you’re just glad to have the time at all. You’re genuinely just happy that he’s here. It’s a pretty nice change, you think. It’s easier. Maybe Rose would call it progress.

“Oh,” he says as he fixes a giant strawberry onto the top of your head. “I guess you still haven’t seen the new apartment yet, have you? It’s about twice the size of my old shithole. It’s got a bedroom and everything.”

“Sounds nice,” you reply absentmindedly.

It doesn’t feel as shitty as it used to, but you still feel so far removed from your bro’s life that he might as well be telling you about another lifetime. It’s hard to focus on something so utterly irrelevant.

He goes on for a bit about his shiny new tech. You mostly tune him out in favor of focusing on his fingers in your hair. This is nice, you think. You’d say you wanted more of it if you knew you were going to get it, but who knows how long it’ll be until you see him again?

“So, what’s up with the little Tinkerbull? He adjusting to life on wheels?”

“Yeah, they’ve finally got all the ramps and rails and shit installed. We find him sprawled awkwardly on the floor sometimes when some genius thinks it’s the height of comedy to steal his wheelchair, but other than that he’s coping like a champ.”

“How about Aradia? She wasn’t hurt long term or anything, right?”

This is the last thing you want to be thinking about right now.

 “Look… Man, things are finally quieting down, so just… let’s not stir up any old shit, alright? Not tonight. Everybody’s mostly on stable terms at the moment, so let’s just go to the goddamn party. I think we deserve to have a little fun after all that went down.”

Dirk lets the subject go, if reluctantly. The two of you finish getting dressed, turn your swag up to the nines, and hit the limelight.

You get a few pointed looks from Terezi, but she’s got her own shit going on. She’s hasn’t dropped her grudge against Vriska, and everyone knows it. Rose looks ready to write a novel on the current state of your broship. Ever since you officially came out, the whole “phallic imagery” shtick has gotten kinda stale. But you seem to be taking a backseat in her life lately, what with how she’s currently mired in reinventing herself as a lesbian martini aficionado, and all. Nobody else really seems to give a shit.

Except Karkat. He forces his way into your immediate field of vision while Dirk’s off catching up with Jane.

“Matching outfits again, Strider? I thought you cut the umbilical cord months ago.”

“Aw, Vantas, you’re just so cute when you’re jealous. See, I’ve got this theory going where you’re like Tinkerbell, too tiny to be anything but pure, unadulterated emotion.”

“Don’t don’t talk about that fairytale shit, jackass.”

“Shit, sorry,” you backtrack. “How about we just pretend I made a joke about how small your dick is instead?”

“That’d be an acceptable substitution, except we both know mine’s bigger than yours.”

“Hey, what happened to your friendly juggalo giant? He get sick of your constant nagging and finally drop your ass like it ain’t hot no more? Shit, son, you must be fast on the rebound if you’re already tearing up my grill. Thought we both agreed that there we no take-backsies on our GTFO’s.”

“I know you’re hard up, but I don’t lower my standards out of pity anymore.”

“Aw, is that your new year’s resolution? Cute. I see you’re getting an early start, dropping the clown and hitting me up.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’d rather fuck my own gaping eyehole than crawl back into your bed.”

“Gross, dude.”

“Thank you. And, for your information, Gamzee’s taking a shit. He’ll be back soon. Not that that would make us in any more of a relationship than you’ve implied. Despite the rumors, we are not nor have we ever been in a sexual relationship. I’m just helping him through some shit in an entirely platonic capacity. Now, about you and that manchild with a god complex so large that ten sequential viewings of the Grease sequel could not even think of engorging the pustules of my rage to a fraction of the size of his ego. Are the two of you as closely matched as your hideous easter reject costumes again, or should I take your current lack of physical proximity to be as good of an indication on your relationship as you seem to think mine is?”

“Drop it, Vantas. Ain’t nothing to see here.”

“Oh, there’s definitely something to see, I’m just not sure what yet.”

“You wanna feast your eyes on some Strider swag, be my guest. In fact, I’ll do you one better and give you a panoramic view.”

He grabs you by the arm before you can fulfill on your promise.

“I was just came over here to say that Kankri told me that your darling brother and Jake English have recently, and I quote, engaged in a sexual relationship, blah blah, yet another rant on why everyone should be as holy and celibate as him, blah blah, that seems to have a rather disturbingly unhealthy dynamic within the confines of their newly formed romantic roles, blah blah, unrealistic expectations, blah blah and so on.”

His Kankri imitation, even cut up by his own commentary, is disturbingly accurate. He even has the facial expressions and posture down. Creepy to the max.

“Anyway, I just thought you should know.”

“I don’t give a shit who he dates. He wants to flame out on a bicurious centerfold from Bear Magazine, that’s his problem. I don’t see why I should get involved.”

“Maybe because he’s your brother?” Vantas sneers.

“Never would have figured you to be a happy proponent of brotherly meddling.”

“You’re a special case, numbnuts.”

“And why exactly is that, Vantas?” you reply, daring him to voice the suspicions that split you up aloud.

 “I’ve got better things to do than play verbal chicken with you all night. You know what I mean. Do something about it or don’t. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“It wasn’t your problem to begin with. Why don’t you mind your own business for once? Maybe clean up your own act. Everybody knows Gamzee’s got a deeper relationship with his dealer than he ever will with you.”

That gets Karkat out of your face, which was admittedly was your main objective. Doesn’t stop you from feeling like a dick, though.

You saunter back over to Dirk, who’s currently chillaxing by the punch bowl with Roxy and, to your visceral displeasure, Jake. You never did like that guy. That’s got nothing at all to do with what Karkat just told you. Nope, nothing at all.

The way you change your trajectory so you just so happen to end up between the two of them has nothing to do with what Karkat just told you either. Definitively not.

Shit, you just realized that you didn’t kiss him when you saw him earlier. Yeah, it was a fucking weird thing for the two of you two be doing in the first place, but it was getting to be almost traditional! Shit, didn’t even make it to the new year. Some tradition.

You stick around with those three until the image of your bro actually boning that braindead mountain man works its way into your head. You’ve got to drown that one out before it takes root, so you excuse yourself and spend the rest of the night getting drunk with Rose.

Or that was your plan until Rose blows you off to go make out with Kanaya in the guest bedroom.

You weren’t sure if you and Terezi were still on good terms after the whole police debacle. You kind of jumped ship into the deep seas of apathy (and also Karkat’s dick) when things started turning sour. But, surprise of the evening, she’s apparently forgiven you and is actually willing to spend her evening in your presence, unlike the rest of those ungrateful slobs.

You get thoroughly sloshed with TZ and eat way too many lemon slices on a dare. You are genuinely worried they’re eating through the lining of your stomach. You feel even more sick when your bro rings in the new year by planting a fat kiss on yonder sasquatch.

Terezi giggles at your discomfort and tells you, “Don’t worry, they won’t make it to the next new year’s.”

You aren’t sure that should comfort you as much as it does.

“So, what about us?” you ask, since she seems to be in such a sharing mood.

“Dave!” she says with her scandalized face. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I am in fact a lady!”

“Naw, I didn’t mean… _us_ us. I meant like… Next year. Where are we going to be next year.”

“I know,” she grins. “That’s what makes it so funny!”

“You’re a regular comedian. But no joke, what do you think we’ll be doing this time next year?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles around her cherry Faygo mixer. Then, after the pointed look you give her, “No, really, Dave! I’m not some kind of… what’s the word? Future-readers. I just see the truth! And the truth is I don’t know what’s coming next.”

“But…” you prompt, because you’re sensing a but.

“But…”

“Yes, TZ? Come on, girl, stay with me now.”

You follow her line of vision across the dimly lit basement and down onto the dance floor where you find none other than Vriska Serket and John Egbert.

“This isn’t over, Dave.”

Vriska catches you staring. She gives you a sharp grin and flips her hair over her shoulder.

“I know. I’m with you.”

“Dave…”

“Look, we both know nothing would have come of it even if I stayed. I just… It pissed me off, alright? I couldn’t stand feeling so…”

“Helpless,” she supplies quietly.

“Yeah. I know abandoning you like that was shitty of me, but—”

“You didn’t abandon me,” she interrupts. “I know that, Dave. You abandoned your faith in the system. We both did. You just went before me.”

That sounds good enough, so you decide to roll with it.

“I can’t let her get away with all she’s done, Dave. It’s not right. It’s not _just_.”

 Vriska laughs just a little too loud. You know it’s for your benefit. That doesn’t bother you half as much as the sight of your bro and Jake right beside her on the dance floor.

“I have a plan that will end all of this, once and for all.”


End file.
